


Carved Upon His Bones

by Hippediva



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Magic, Prison, Sibling Incest, Torture, Violence, Whips and Chains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In prison, Loki suffers.  </p>
<p>My heartfelt gratitude to Splix for her thorough beta and for inspiring me to write in this fandom.  I want to dedicate this to her in thanks for her continued inspiration and encouragement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carved Upon His Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [splix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/gifts).



Rage could only feed so much before fizzling out like a guttered candle, leaving pockets of empty space inside Loki that shrieked and cried. November wind in his soul and no shelter at all had become a daily misery, far worse than the boredom. He lost track of time. The lights brightened and dimmed in regular cycles but he had stopped counting long ago. Without his blanket of fury to hug tight to his psyche, what was the point? Another day, another night of silence and utter ennui. 

The rage had bought him nothing. He turned it on the guards and they laughed or worse, left him alone. Theirs were the only faces he saw and week after week of total solitude was punctuated with the burning knowledge that he was watched but never addressed, seen but seeming forgotten. He turned it on himself, refused to eat and was force fed in chains. That was at least amusing in a grotesque sort of fashion for a day or two. 

A day? Two? Out of how many? Temper tantrums were useless. He had broken every stick of furniture provided within the first three weeks and it was patiently removed and replaced by sturdier items. Mustn't leave the detritus lying about lest he hurt himself.

He tried that, too, but had too much pride to impale himself on a bit of bedpost. They never allowed him anything that could really do damage and he was not going to demean himself by some pathetic game of weapons-making out of the odd bit of flatware. 

Bored to distraction and beyond rage, he was still a prince.

Most of the time, he sat on the floor, staring up at the cavernous ceiling until he knew every crack and divot in its stone surface. Sometimes, he found he was talking to himself. Sternly he forced himself to silence.

He might be a prisoner but he was not mad.

He could swallow their derision, their hate, even their contempt but he would not endure pity. That was unthinkable.

Late in the night--he could only assume it was night because the lights were low--when he was safe in the dark from hidden eyes that peered from shadowed corners, could the tears squeeze their way past tight-shut lids, but no more than that. No sounds did he permit past lips bitten raw to betray the growing black chasm inside him. 

His own school of discipline was a harder one than the prison holding him.

The boredom was soul-crushing. He could hardly bear how he brightened at the thought of seeing one of the guard's faces for the few moments out of the day when they brought him the food he picked at and pushed around the plate like a cranky child. That shamed him and every now and then provoked enough energy for him to start throwing things again, much to the guards' amusement.

But it faded too soon. He could not sustain it, not even by force of will anymore. Without his rage, that towering, all-consuming fire that lit in his entrails and made him whole, he was a dying ember, stripped of any purpose or solace.

There was silence and solitude and emptiness and he wasn't sure which was worse. He spent long hours trying to decide and gave up without a solution.

He was surrendering these mental arguments more often than not. They simply were not worth it.

If he had been truly alone, perhaps he might have indulged himself more, but what was the point of making a fool of himself to exhaustion for the benefit of trolls? He could feel their eyes at odd times, knew he was watched almost continuously. 

Well, that was something, perhaps. Too dangerous to be unobserved? The bitterness that touched his smile was but a fraction of itself, as if it, too were a tree gone too long unwatered and desiccating in this underground tomb of stone and glass.

He started to wonder about death, knowing all the while that was a hopeless sop to a burned out psyche. After all, the only father he had ever known called it his destiny, his sole birthright. He could not live without his anger and they would not let him die. 

He slept and dreamed and slept again.

 

Thor, too, slept and dreamed of ways to punish a brother, no brother, who had wreaked such havoc, told such lies. The most unforgivable, that Odin had died, still burned and turned his blood to berserker fire, craving vengeance. His anger raged and its torment followed him daily, nightly, until he was being consumed by a vain wish to punish where the Allfather had already punished. Dreams and daydreams interrupted his battles and tasks, his slumber and his leisure, burning like a brand, always with his brother's malicious gaze.

He was not such a fool as most thought, a creature only of strength and noise. Within him crackled the lightning and eldritch fires, smelling of ozone and destruction. He thought long before he knew where to go and what to do.

Far away from Asgard's halls, down, down through the heart of the Bifrost's glittering core he dove, down to Midgard and the river called Rhine.

There Aegir, the sea Jotunn's daughters swam and sang and he braved their siren lures.

"What can you give us, son of Odin, Allfather of the Aesir, that could pay for what you ask?" Wellgunde's eyes of violet depths caressed and lulled.

"What need have we of swords of might, brave Thunderer, to make you come to us for aid?" crooned Woglinde, she with eyes of pitchy black where the river rocks lay.

"Your strength cannot force us, your tongue cannot cajole. Send your brother here, for his silvered words please us more, to beg your case," laughed fair Flosshilde of the azure waves.

He was not a fool, no, not at all, and formed the lies around his lips, hard though it was to do what Loki could so thoughtlessly. "For my brother I have come, to help him where he braves the Allfather's wrath. Imprisoned is Loki and I would ease his grief." 

They were so close, the smell of fresh winds and frozen kelp clinging to their foamwhite arms, wound round him and he fought to keep his wits. How hard it was to lie and remember each lie, laying there where the waters lapped at his boots and their arms bade him forget all and dive into their realm. His head lay in Flosshilde's lap, her silvergilt hair spilling over his face, his hands prisoned in Wellgunde's, green nails sharp hold stronger than iron, his feet held fast in Woglinde's currents, her strength of the uncertain waters overpowering. 

"Beautiful and strong you may be, son of Odin, but you may not rise so easily from our bed." They laughed together and the lulling laughter near drowning him in slumber echoed and echoed, as an ear close to a shell.

"Listen well, Aesir, the only magic that can bind sorcery itself we can give you. But only to help one of our Jotunn own. You know your brother is our kind, frozen water of our waters, born of Jotunn blood and we would free that silvered tongue for family's sake and spite. Use it well, Thor Odinson and do not fail. For we will demand recompense, should Loki not be freed and you will pay in water's depths." Woglinde's hands reached for his dagger and cut three locks of hair, one from her pitch black head, one from Wellgunde's sunset curls and one from Flosshilde's waving pale gold crown. Together, they braided, in infinite strands, a rope of such beauty, none who looked upon it could but marvel and know this was done by no mortal hands.

"Farewell, Thunderer. Give our love to our prisoned kin and set him free. Or return to us forever." And waves sang soft mockery as he staggered to where the Bifrost would bear him home to Asgard.

 

The Rhinemaidens' rope hid all from view, not even Heimdall could penetrate the murky illusions it cast in its wake. It was so easy to follow the guards, cloaked by magic, the rope wound tight on his arm, and slip into the cell at daylight's end, when the lights were dimmed. 

It was shocking and pleasant to know that the shadows hid him, even as he watched Loki's dull gaze on the ceiling, fighting his pity, finding his anger, for his brother's seemed to have vanished. It was so strange to be hidden from mocking words and dancing, malicious eyes, so terrible to know the power he held in one hand. 

He remembered the lies, his own tears, his pathetic gratitude and ignited his rage once more, swinging the braided rope like Mjolnir, waiting for the moment when Loki moved, listlessly raising his head. The noose found its mark.

 

Grey as the first touch of dawn, blue as a summer sky, green as ocean's depths, Loki's eyes were wide, unseeing. There was light but only wavering shadows, as if he had been plunged into deep waters and was staring upwards at the surface, the last vision of a drowning man. He could only hear the churning of waves, reverberating any sound to unrecognizable thrumming. His voice was stilled completely, mouth open in a cry of surprise but no sound emerged, not even a whisper, all swallowed in the depths of the magic now imprisoning him within his cell. His fingers clawed at the noose, wound tight around his neck, a choker of burnished strands he could not break. His own magic stilled with his voice, he turned, twisted, sightless eyes searching, hands outstretched, only to be captured and the noose tightened, cutting off all breath until he reeled and sank, senseless, into arms that waited, now impatient to get on with their task.

 

Loki's eyes opened but saw nothing but shimmering light in wavering darkness. He could only hear that ceaseless drone throbbing in his ears. But his arms were aching, pulled over his head, shackled so his toes just barely touched the cold floor. Unclothed and dangling like a carrot before a cart, he stretched his long legs, trying to find some foothold to take the strain off his arms. His face flushed, lips twisting into a rictus of a smile, wanting nothing more than to spit poisonous words at whomever had dared to treat him thus, wanting nothing less than to escape the knowledge that he had only begun to feel whatever was to be done to him. This was but a commencement and his mind hopscotched away from what the end might be. All around him was that churning silence and milky dark and nothing but his straining muscles, shock, and shame. 

He waited, breathless, but not a finger touched him. Nothing at all on his skin, so ghostly white in the low light to his watching captor. He swayed, toes pointing, his calves bunched, then stretching as he struggled to take his weight off straining shoulders.

He waited for a blow, for anything, but there was nothing but the silence around him and eyes he could feel but not see. He could feel their heat, sense them behind him, then before, to his right, then to his left, circling him as a wolf circles his prey. 

Still he hung, helpless, naked, trapped in glimmering blindness, deafened so even his own heartbeat throbbed as though through walls of water, muted, anxious and waiting, still waiting and holding every breath. 

For hours he squirmed, struggled and twisted, his head thrown back, black hair streaming down his back and over his shoulders, sweat beginning to run into it, making tendrils curl around his face. His shoulders ached, his legs cramping from his endless vain attempts to reach the floor, his lips were crackling dry. And still not a sound or move, not even a shadow in front of his dimmed, open eyes. He kicked out trying to find his captor and that set him swinging dizzily. 

He began to tire of the game, had exhausted himself to no avail, and let himself hang limp, his breath coming in short little gasps. 

The first blow caught him at an angle slashing from ribs to thigh across his lower back with incredible force, so hard it sent him spinning in the air, his mouth wide in a silent shriek, his whole body electrified by pain. The second cut across the first slash from the other side, even harder. He twitched, shuddered and screamed without sound, dragging in great sobbing breaths. Then the noose around his neck pulled taut until the watery darkness faded and his head dropped to his chest. 

Outside, over Asgard a storm raged far into the night until the grey of dawn.

 

Loki roused, curled in his bed, that ridiculous great monster of a bed that made his cell look like a Vanaheim brothel, and he opened one eye lazily. The lights were full; he must have slept long and he stretched like a cat on his side, luxuriating in the drag of the sheets, fine and soft for a princely prisoner. He blinked, and fought the urge to simply turn back into goose down pillows and ignore the lights. What difference would it make if he slept for a month? And his dreams? Well, they were something different, something interesting. They had been so grey of late. Last night's had been quite the exciting adventure. He laughed softly, almost with humor, and rolled over.

The pain shot through him like electricity, like lightning. His back arched wildly and he yelled so loud one of the guards wandered over to peer at him through the glass. 

He stared back, eyes wide over the high-pulled sheet, suddenly aware that he was naked under it. The guard beckoned and he willed himself to roll over, ignoring him. 

He never slept naked. He refused to make himself a show for the guards who paraded in front of his cell every hour or two and, always fastidious as a girl in his habits, had taken to keeping himself covered as much as possible, shielding himself with illusion when he could find no other way. But he wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking of the pain across his back and buttocks that had provoked such an uncharacteristic and spontaneous a response.

It had been no dream. 

Curiosity prodded him to his feet, the sheet wrapped around him like a shroud and he padded to the mirror, one eye trained on the outside of his cell. No one was there to check on him.

He turned, craning his head over his shoulder and let the sheet fall away from his back, staring in shock at the huge welted X, ruby red weals that marked him, the cuts of a wide strap, edges already purpling and dotted here and there with delicate smears of crimson. 

He pulled the sheet back around himself tight and struggled to get back to the bed before he collapsed on the floor, his head spinning.

How had this happened? And by whom? 

Without the confines of the prison, the walls of golden Asgard ran with grey rain, the rumble of thunder ominous and subdued.

 

Loki waited, impatient for the lights to dim, his gut clenching in a welter of nervous curiosity. He was not about to let it happen again: the glass cage could contain his magic, but could not prevent him from wielding it and he was alert, ready, thrilled. He was not going to be surprised a second time. So he waited, long into the night, forcing himself to stay awake. Every time his head drooped, he got to his feet, pacing his cell like a panther, but the lights rose, signaling the dawn and nothing had happened. 

The next night was the same, and the one after that, until his eyes were bleary with lack of sleep and he knew he could maintain neither his composure nor the illusion of insouciant disregard that he had crafted so painstakingly without rest. 

After five days, he could not help but sleep deeply most of the day only waking when the lights were dimmest, far past the midnight hour. 

Nothing happened. No one came.

Still the rain fell in Asgard, deep in the forests and over the rooftops, sullen and grey and punctuated with angry gusts of wind that set the trees shivering.

 

Clever Loki was not to be fooled or lulled, but he tired of waiting and the brutal marks had faded to plum-colored bruises. His boredom had returned and he stopped longing for a confrontation with his unknown attacker. A lesser creature might have dismissed it all as a wishful illusion, but with the tense waiting had been the pain, lancing through him whenever he sat to prove its reality. Forgotten again? The thought made him almost sad. He picked at his food with an utter lack of appetite and shoved the plate away, watching the corridor reflected in the mirror with a wistful expression.

He blinked awake when the guard came to collect the dishes, sighed and watched the lights slowly begin their nightly diminuendo, curled on the bed riding a wave of ennui that made it easy to abandon himself to slumber. 

He should not have been so complacent.

 

He was back in the grip of that shimmering blindness, his heartbeat thudding like a distant hammer, his back arched and aching, his wrists bound together behind it, suspended from the chest, the chains a cold embrace under his arms, chiming softly against his thighs. This time, his ankles, too, were bound, his body bent back like a strung bow. This time he saw shadows passing back and forth, upside down before his eyes, his lips open with the curve of his throat. This time, he did not have to wait long for a touch.

A hand curled around his neck, where the noose held fast, traveling into his hair and pushing it back so it dangled to where he could just feel the ends wisping against his feet, so cruelly was he arced. It was broad, the hand, fingers calloused and rough, a warrior's hand, somehow familiar but shock had robbed him of sense and he was so dizzy. 

He heard sounds, they must be words, but all he could discern were tones and timbre, like the sounds of a harpist tuning his instrument in the hall. There were two hands now, running down his chest to his thighs, just brushing past his genitals. He twitched and the effort to pull away made him swing against his captor. 

Laughter. That he could make out, dulled and obscured. And the hands did run upwards fleetingly between his legs, making him struggle, his throat working as he swallowed convulsively, fighting panic. 

He had not even felt himself subdued this time. It was near impossible to come on him unawares. His senses were fine-tuned to danger but he had slept right through it all, only waking when the blood rushed to his head as he was hoisted off his feet. It should have made him furious but he was shaken to his core by the ease with which it had been accomplished. His blood should have been boiling with rage. 

It was starting to boil but with a far different kind of heat as the big hands kept running over him and he was entirely helpless to stop it, or even struggle. He could not make a sound and that was a mercy, because he felt if he could, he might stutter or worse, sob.

His head shook back and forth as the hands pulled him against a big body, cold-armored, the tickle of hair against him, just over his heart and more indistinct sounds. Something in this was horribly, terrifyingly wrong; familiar and grotesque in the way it enforced his response without a fight. He twisted, trying to pull away and set himself swinging again. That made him collide with his captor once more, bouncing against the armor in a way that made him blush to his hairline. The hands were back, sometimes rough against skin that was starting to overheat, sometimes barely a whisper of a touch. Then they disappeared, leaving him cold and aching, bent back, aroused despite himself. He wanted less, he wanted more, he wanted anything that might erase the throb of his twitching cock and the misery of knowing there was not a thing he could do about any of it. 

It was such a long time before he felt a touch again, he sighed in relief. So gentle, those hands in his hair, smoothing it back, soothing, and he relaxed, almost comfortable despite his agonized position, wide eyes fixed on the darkness. He had stopped struggling.

Once more, the blow came out of nowhere; thin, whistling, sharper than a thousand knives cutting across his chest, leaving flame in its wake and he screamed without a sound. Another and another, until the lashes were falling on him like driving rain and his throat was raw, he was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming into his hair, his neck twisting when the burn came too close to his face. His chest and belly were beds of fire that curled around his sides, fingers of pain that made him writhe and swing like a pendulum to meet each blow. He was gasping, sobbing for breath, his face a mask of agony. 

Another flurry of lashes cut across his thighs, then back up again and he stared upwards without sight, barely sensible and trembling to the soles of his feet. His face was strained, first scarlet and distorted with screaming, then pale as death when the lashing mercifully stopped. His breathing was shallow and ragged when he felt the chains ease down. He lolled, his head pillowed again rough wool and he tried to reach up but the effort was too great. His hand fell away and a shadow loomed over him, dropping rain to mingle with his tears. 

Asgard sighed under a steady downpour, eaves dripping disconsolately onto steps and muddied channels eddying through the streets.

 

For days after, Loki would exhaust himself creating illusions so he could ponder, in private, the black welts crisscrossing his body like a net of anguish, stinging to the touch, making every movement a symphony of pain. He could not stop staring in the mirror, shielded by magic that was draining his scant reserves of strength, tracing one line after another in the grip of mesmerized obsession. For hours, he pored over them, his fingertips sending scalding agony with every touch, but he could no more stop touching them than he could have stopped breathing. His eyes were hollow, sunk deep into his head, dark circled and questioning, filled with a strangely empty expression of wonder. Rage was forgotten, malice set aside, he was trapped in a world that included only himself and a faceless, unknown bringer of pain that masqueraded as ecstasy. He hugged that to himself and mourned as each stripe turned from black to purple, from violet red to greenish pink and finally to shadowy blue haze.

No one came to him when the lights were low. He was alone once more, bereft and longing. Every night started with giddy anticipation and faded away to lonely dreams. 

He ate little, slept fitfully and could barely manage to maintain his illusions for the guards' benefit. Once the marks had disappeared entirely, he spent most of the time staring into his own eyes in the mirror, wondering when, always when.

It seemed he was abandoned once again and that opened a chasm inside him that was colder than ice. Frozen with loss, he sank into it willingly. What hope he had cherished was being swallowed in a mad desire for whatever this horror could bring. 

But he was alone and there was no rage, no hope, nothingness so vast it was an ocean and that was exquisite agony, so fine-tuned it vibrated within him like lost melody. 

 

Then, one night, he woke suddenly; woke in the way he used to wake: tensed, eyes sweeping the dim recesses of his cell, every sense alive. He knew he wasn't alone, though he saw nothing. Hours passed and he knew. He knew it as surely as he knew his name. His pain-bringer was there, in the cell with him. He moved slowly, concentrating with every breath, traversing every inch of the space. He found nothing, fighting back a rush of fear-filled frustration. Something inside him, some second sense warned him not to speak. He sat on the bed, arms wound around his knees, eyes darting back and forth, watching, until the lights rose again to signal another day. 

Still, he knew and he could not shake that knowledge. Like a wary animal, he was certain he was not alone all through the day and it was silent torture. He bit back his fear and desire and tried to maintain his composure, but the faded lattice of lashes had left phantom cracks all through him and his whole being was pouring out into a pitiless void. By the time the lights dimmed once more, he was fighting irrational terror and longing and sat on the bed staring achingly at nothingness. 

A snowflake fell to star the green velvet coverlet, then another, and another until the cell was silently filled with snow, little drifts beginning to pile around his huddled body, sparkling in his black hair like a crown.

 

Long ago, Thor remembered, when they were young, Loki had refused to do some task their father had ordered, some childish thing too inconsequential to recall. What he did recall was his brother's sudden and stubborn refusal and the Allfather's anger at his defiance. He had beaten Loki, there and then, a hard whipping, but his young brother had not cried, his face white and set. Odin had been even more infuriated by Loki's obstinate refusal to cry, had lashed him so hard he drew blood and only stopped when their mother laid a hand on his arm. In the great hall, all around them, it was snowing; soft, great flakes falling into wine goblets and over the fine platters and piled heaps of food. Odin had stopped, his anger suddenly gone and ordered both Thor and Loki out of the hall to their chambers. No one had ever dared to ask the Allfather what had happened or why.

Now Thor understood and he fled the cell in confusion while the silent snow fell steadily over the head of his breaking brother.

 

In Asgard, the rain whined, the wind moaned and whipped itself into a fury, lightning flashing to make day of the night as the thunder crashed like waves. Then the rains ceased, as suddenly as they had begun, and all was silence.

 

Loki lost track of time again. Had it been days? Hours? Weeks or months? He was numb and incapable of any sensation but loss. His only real memory of the events following that day of unspoken, watchful misery was the guards pulling him from his cell to clean out the melted snow that puddled ankle-deep on the floor. It was so dangerous to free him of that shielded cage, yet he found himself unresponsive; waiting, silent and unmoving until they pushed him back inside and he was alone once more. Such a wasted opportunity, he knew, bitterly aware of what he had missed. It would have been so easy, so pathetically simple to escape, but escape where? Where could he go in Asgard or anywhere without being hunted like an animal? It seemed pointless. 

The consummate liar was lying to himself. Had he escaped, there would be no pain-bringer to await, no splintering rapture of agony to anticipate. 

His thoughts ran round and round in the same circle, dull donkeys circling a mill wheel that was grinding him to powder. Anticipation faded to sorrow, sorrow to despair and despair to empty-eyed hollowness that reached into his bones. The only thing that made him want to cling to the precipice did not return and time lay upon him like suffocating clods upon a grave. He wondered idly if Odin would grant him permission to die, he wondered if he could stomach the asking. His pride was dust, hope crushed and he wanted nothing more than oblivion. 

So long had it been, his ribs were carving channels in his back, the marks long-gone but incised within, as though his soul had taken and made of them jewels. For days he would be fixed before the mirror or staring unseeing at the ceiling above him, silent and slowly starving himself into nothingness. He longed to see those marks, to know if they were branded within him where bruises never faded, to turn himself inside out and stand outstretched and willing for more.

His face was gaunt, hollows carved deep beneath bones that thrust insistent through skin stretched taut and milk pale. He ignored everything around him, concentrating on one thought, one hope until he was dizzy with the effort. Exhausted, he would sleep for days on end, lying in deathly stillness, a living corpse on a bier of velvet in a crypt of glass, only to wake and watch and wonder again.

He was nearing the approach of another bout of spent slumber, staring eyes ringed black as the hair that snarled and tumbled around his face in twisted elflocks when the guard had brought in another meal he would barely taste. He blinked, his dulled senses prodding that indomitable survival sense that had always burned in him. He had imagined this so often, been disappointed so many times that he shrugged, reaching for a bit of bread. 

Then it was upon him, that blinding dim watery dark, so quickly his hand dropped before it had reached the plate. He smiled, overwhelmed with a wave of emotion that threatened to drown him, but the choking pressure grew, the darkness ceased to waver and he tumbled from consciousness, the smile frozen upon his lips.

Sense returned with the ache of his arms from the weight of his dangling body and the feeling of warm breath against his cheek. He wanted to laugh, to reach out, and shout, a part of him wondering 'is this joy?' He knew only relief that he wasn't abandoned and drank each touch in as a thirsty plant drinks the spring rain. 

There was no pain in the grip on his hair, the bruising pressure of lips against his own, the teeth sunk into his shoulder or the fingers tensed on his hips that left welcome crescents of red in their wake. 

He was alive and his body sang with every torturous caress. He was finally fully awake from skin to the particles that made up his blood, bone and sinew. There was victory in every blistering touch and shared, scorching breath. Kisses like blows, touches like flames, this was claim and claiming. Every single inch of his flesh was alight, glowing, sweat-dewed and glistening like an iced windowpane. It mattered not at all that he could not see, nor hear, nor speak; there was no need for sight, sound or words. There was flesh on flesh, strong hands lifting him up, his legs locked around hard-muscled hips, his head thrown back in ecstasy. 

The universe spiraled and whirled, their breath mingling, and the chains were gone, his arms wound around a strong neck, tangled in long hair as they moved together, crushing time into a single moment when he was flooded with heat and splintered into fragments of frost and light. 

He was smiling, and smiling, felt the noose around his neck tighten, his fingers clenched and he sank into blackness.

 

Consciousness came slowly, first in the muffled sounds outside his cell: marching feet, the endless parade of guards, the half-heard sounds from other prisoners. He blinked and curled himself around the pillows, dragging reluctant eyelids open to see the lights at full intensity. He felt like a plucked string, still reverberating, echoing the night, memory of stretching soreness and piercing thrusts making him quiver under the sheets. For a long time, he just lay there, eyes closed and breath rising and falling softly, parceling out each sensation: the linen against a sore spot on his hip, the dull throb of a bite on his shoulder, the myriad of little bruises and finger marks that spelled out completion and made him sigh and smile. 

His fingers were still clenched and he opened his eyes, feeling strands of hair between sensitive fingertips and bent his dark head to see them, curiously. 

The smile faded, his eyes widened and like a wildfire ignited by lightning, his gut clenched. He was starting to tremble, drowning in ice. A venomous hiss and he sat up, staring at his hand and the three golden hairs twined around his fingers. 

A scream of pure fury erupted from him, echoing down the corridors, up from the cavernous prison to the golden halls of Valhalla itself.

That brought two guards running to the cell, banging on the glass and they stared at a pair of malevolent eyes the color of flame and blood and a perfect, poisonous smile.

Loki had found his rage once more.

 

FIN

 

 

You, shining sun above paths tread by all,  
Look down from lofty heights at men unsung  
And wonder how can those ways be trod so dull  
And dim by insects grappling with the fall  
Of night. While I fail, faint, my will undone  
No longer gropes to finding solace full  
But claws its way to caves where damned and dark  
I lose myself. And in that place of fear  
You grave your light upon my needing soul,  
Illuminate my way with raptures stark  
And blank where thought cannot be formed and tears  
Are damning rain. Be then my orb, those stolen  
Rays carved upon my bones, and I can hate  
You less than the need to revel in my fate.

C. Briony James 2013


End file.
